Burning Confessions

Chapter 2

“No son or daughter of mine”—he flashed me a quick glare—“is going to turn themselves into a drunk, and neither will you Bret Lawrence. You owe that much to your poor parents.”

I trembled feeling this spine-tingling shudder run through me, same as when Daddy scolded me.

Bret nodded.

“This house is your home and I want you to feel that way, son. But you will not disrespect Mrs. Gallagher and me with that kind of behavior again.”

“Yes, sir.”

I was practically crawling into the slats of my chair, and the boys looked more embarrassed than Bret, keeping their eyes glued to their plates like they might if Daddy were scolding them. I knew they’d had their share of liquor, but they’d never been caught. That was probably the reason this embarrassing scene took place in front of the entire family. Daddy was making Bret an example.

“And I’d better not hear of you shaming yourself anywhere outside this house, as well. Is that clear?”

“It is, sir.”

“Now, I think we need to finish this discussion in the shed.”

There was another visible gulp from Bret, but he didn’t object. He knew he’d earned a whippin’ and wasn’t about to quarrel, but I could see him tremble. My heart poured out to him. As he got up from his chair about to leave the dining room, my father interrupted, “Oh, and Bret, perhaps you’d like to apologize now. You may not feel like it when we’re done.”

As though he felt like it at the moment? I thought to myself. I’m sure that anything that happens prior to a turn in the shed is far worse than the pain.

For a guy that normally seemed like he can conquer the world, he was mighty humbled. That was the first and only time I’ve seen him blush.

“Mrs. Gallagher,” he nodded to Mama, then his eyes swept the room quickly acknowledging us all, finally resting on Daddy, “sir … I’m sorry about last night. There was no excuse.” Then he looked right at Mama. “I’ll write a letter of apology to your Women’s League tonight.”

Mama just smiled and said, “Thank you.”

“Well, then,” Daddy said, “Let’s get this over with.”

Everyone in the house was shaking, the tension in the room could be cut with a knife. Here, a practically grown man was yielding to my father…it was amazing. All Daddy’s boys were righteously subdued.

We heard the strap hit because it was a warm night and the windows were open. But there was not one howl, not one peep at all from the stoic Bret. He took the licking like a man. He knew he deserved it and knew it was coming. And while he limped quietly up the stairs to his room afterward, still looking subdued and grim, he did so with a grace that was rarely experienced in our house.

The next morning, Bret was bounding down the stairs with a smile on his face as charming as ever, as though nothing had ever happened, the letter of apology to the Women’s League signed and sealed resting across Mama’s breakfast plate.

Bret began noticing me right after that incident. I’m not sure if his trip to the woodshed had anything to do with it, but there was a sudden change, and I was pleased as a kid opening a bar of candy.

One afternoon, I found him in the attic working on the electrical wiring. He seemed to have a knack for that sort of thing, and since every male in our house, including Daddy, has five thumbs and no brain when it comes to the inner workings of the house, Bret took over that kind of household repair. He could have been hot-wiring the house and sending us to the moon for all we knew. Though the only thing we really noticed was that the lights didn’t flicker anymore when the toaster was plugged in at the same time Mama was using the electric mixer.

Handing Bret half my sandwich, I plopped down in the attic dormer and stared out at the rain. I was a frustrated seventeen year old, with not enough liberty to suit me, and a whole long day to stay inside and amuse myself. The big attic had always been my thinking domain. Everyone knew that, including Bret, and I wasn’t about to let him ruin my necessary brooding time.

The only thing is, we started talking that afternoon and didn’t stop until dinner. I’d never really had a personal conversation with him. Though we’d lived inside our volatile family climate together for some time, we hadn’t actually connected. I always considered him much older, and he thought of me as the gangly little squirt I was when he first came to live with us. He’s the same age as the twins but not nearly as immature—his error with the drinking aside. And just a year older than I am, the difference between us always seemed like light-years. Mama told me once, “that boy’s old for his years, happens when you have family tragedy.” Bret and I talked about his family tragedy, and he talked about his exuberant life, and all the dreams he had, and about me. Our conversations continued, usually in one of the old house’s empty rooms or my attic. Once we even had a decent conversation in the woodshed, and yes, we covered the aforementioned topic of domestic discipline.

I asked him to tell me about the night he got drunk. He was still a little chagrinned about the lickin’ he took, but he could still talk about it straightforward. “I deserved it, Calley,” he said. “But I’ve never been as embarrassed in my life as to be reprimanded by your father. Makes my skin crawl even now thinking of it.”

“They all make my skin crawl.”

“It was the most painful thing I ever remember, taking my pants down and bending over that workbench. I thought I shouldn’t make a sound, helped me stay in control, I think. That was one hell of a going over, and I knew that I didn’t want another one, but then…” He stopped talking, bringing to mind the second, secret incident.

“But then Daddy whupped you again, didn’t he?” I chimed right in. “You deserve that one too?”

“Yeah, I deserved that one too.”

“No one knows what happened.”

“And I suppose you want me to tell you?” He was sporting his charming grin by then, as if it didn’t really matter much.

“I don’t have a right to ask, but I’d sure like to know—everyone wants to know what Daddy caught you doing.”

He finally shrugged at me, and whispered really quietly as though there were people around to hear his confession.

“I was caught with my pants down—with a girl. Her father found us and called your Daddy, suggesting that he’d better teach me a lesson. And that he did.”

“Ooo, then it was over a girl,” I was both salivating over the information and feeling jealous. I figured he could have any girl he wanted once he turned on his charm, but having never had the facts of his s****l competence confirmed, I suddenly realized that I wanted Bret Lawrence to myself.

“Yes, it was over a girl, but I’m not going to tell you who.”

“Fair enough,” I answered. “Was it as bad as the first time?”

“Not really. I didn’t have the eyes of the entire family to contend with. That was good in itself. And the truth is, I didn’t feel bad about my relationship with… with,” he was trying not to say her name, “neither did she. We were just too careless getting caught.”

“You ever do it with her again?”

“That’s getting mighty personal,” Bret answered, eyes merrily twinkling.

“I guess I just want to know if I have a chance with you, or if you’re taken.”

I said it so easily, like it was no big deal to confess my attraction for him, and he took notice. Bret eyed me for a minute maybe—it sure felt like forever. “You’re really serious?”

“Yeah, I’m really serious. I just hope I’m not making a fool out of myself.”

“No, you’re not making a fool out of yourself. Who says friends can’t become more than friends?”

That was all we said about the matter that day, but I knew then we’d crossed an imaginary line that keeps friends just friends, and it was unlikely we could retrace our steps.

Going to the attic to brood took on new meaning. Meeting Bret on the sly began to take over my whole world. I was approaching eighteen, having had my share of boyfriends, and all of a sudden I’m finding the man I want living right under my own roof. It was amazing and very convenient.

For the first few weeks after my little confession, we managed to steer clear of anything physical. But the night after my eighteenth birthday all that changed. It turned out to be the worse and the best night of my life. I’d lost a writing contest to my arch rival, Billy Jean Winters, and stormed out of the dining room after admitting my shameful failure to my family, hearing my mother say as I took to the stairs, “Why don’t you go to her, Bret. You seem to have her ear.”

I had no idea anyone in the house knew about my budding friendship with him, and I didn’t like that either. And at the moment, I wasn’t sure I even wanted Bret to console me. Didn’t have much choice, though, he found me in my attic. By the time I finished sobbing in his arms, our hands were all over each other. He had his inside my shirt, mine were inside his, and we were both scrambling to get out of our pants. We ended up naked on the daybed screwing like long lost lovers, or two just very horny people. We were exhausted by the time we finished, both panting and out of breath.

Now, going to the attic wasn’t for brooding at all, it had taken on such meaning, that we had to keep ourselves from disappearing there too often. Then too, I didn’t want to get pregnant so we had to be very careful. It wasn’t long before Bret and I were screwing in my bedroom and, even more often, his. Occasionally, we’d even meet in the second attic. Any place where we could lock the door behind us became our love nest.

I adored his body. It was as sexy as his spirit, and his laugh and charm and wit and his deep blue eyes. He had such broad shoulders, a muscled stomach from all his working out and a pair of the most sensuous thighs I’ve ever seen on a guy. And that crotch, c**k half-erect … hummm, I’m like a puddle of water melting at his feet to get my mouth over the bobbing purple head.

He’s about as fascinated with me as I am with him. Sometime after we screw, he raises up on an elbow and looks down at me with those beautiful blues, and traces a line down my body from neck to crotch. He dabbles his fingers along my breasts, circling around them, ending at my n*****s which he pinches delicately. I feel a sharp spasm in my groin as though I’m ready to make love again. This is so sweet, he usually just pours over these oversized knockers—sure, no guy thinks there are too big, but at my age to be so well-endowed makes me nervous. He often lingers with his face between them, sucking the skin. And once he tried getting his d**k off as I pressed my breasts tight to each other with his p***s in-between. Boy, was that a nasty show.

I think I like it best, though, when his fingers get on with their gentle exploration, trailing on down to my navel and then my crotch. My skin is naturally dark, like I’m tan all year long, and Bret tells me it’s so smooth it feels like silk, soft like peaches. When he reaches my c******s I think I’m ready to climax again. All this s*x has made me infinitely happy. Our love affair seemed to push us crazily. I couldn’t get enough of him those first few months, and we started to get careless.

We were in his room one day—door locked of course—but I was so in to cumming that I forgot myself, my voice rising quite nicely. When I finished, I heard footsteps outside the door—good gawd, who was that? I wondered, while Bret gave me this slightly shamed expression, saying without words, “we’d better be more careful.”

We were more careful after that. In fact, for two weeks we hardly saw each other, and made no indication of our relationship before the family. I was starting to wonder if that was a good idea. Once we finally decided to tell people, wouldn’t it look a little strange? And why were we hiding it in first place? Having turned eighteen, it shouldn’t make any difference. But I suppose it’s all because of Daddy. We had the feeling since the beginning that he wouldn’t approve, and it would have torn me apart, and likely Bret too, if he forbid us to carry on. Worse yet, what if he made Bret find another place to live?